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fixed upon the image of the fleeing stag, watching antlers brush overhanging limbs and leaves. Straining,
no longer howling as he gasped to make the most of each desperate breath, the wolf pursued in deadly
silence.
And in that silence he began to sense his failure. The loping forms of his packmates whispered like
ghosts through the fern-lined woodland behind him, but neither were they able to close the distance to the
fleeing prey. Even the yellow-eyed female, long jaws gaping in a fang-lined grin of hunger, could not hold
the pace much longer.
Then, with an abrupt turn, the stag darted to the left. Cutting the corner of the angle, the leading pair of
wolves closed the distance. Soon the male was racing just behind the prey's left quarter, while the
powerful bitch closed in from the opposite side. The twin hunters flanked the prey, blocking any attempt
to change course.
But the stag continued its flight with single-minded determination, as if it had found a goal. The antlered
deer ran downward along the slope of a broad ridge, plunging through thickets, leaping large boulders
that would be obstacles only to lesser creatures. The woods opened still more, and now the vista showed
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a swath of blue water, a bay extending between twin necks of rugged land.
Finally the stag broke from the woods to gallop across a wide swath of moor. Soft loam cushioned the
broad hooves, and though the deer's tongue flopped loosely from wide jaws and nostrils flared madly
with the strain of each
breath, the animal actually increased the speed of its desperate flight.
But so, too, did the wolves. More and more of the pack burst from the woods, trailing across the
spongy grassland, running now in grim and purposeful silence. If the great male had looked back, he
would have noticed a surprising number of canine predators, more by far than had belonged to his pack
when they had settled into the den for a winter's rest. And still more wolves came along the shores,
gathering from north and south, highland and coast, drawn toward the scene of the hunt, hundreds of gray
forms ghosting toward a single point.
The stag finally faltered, but not because of fatigue. The animal slowed to a regal trot, proud antlers held
high. The sea was very near now, but the buck did not strive for the shoreline. Instead, the forest
monarch turned its course along that rocky beach, toward a pool of liquid that rested in the perfect
shelter of a rocky bowl.
The pond was too high to be a tidal pool, nor did the water seem like a collection of mere rain or runoff.
Instead, the liquid was pale, almost milky-white in color, and it swirled in a hypnotic pattern. The
shoreline was steep, but in one place a steplike progression of rocks allowed the buck to move carefully
downward.
Wolves gathered on the rocks, surrounding the stag and the pool, knowing that the prey was trapped.
Yet some silent compulsion held the hungry predators at bay. Glittering eyes watched with keen
intelligence as the stag's muzzle touched the surface of the water; long, panting tongues flopped loosely as
the carnivores waited for their prey to drink.
For a long time, the great deer lapped at the waters of the Moonwell, and when finally it had drunk its fill
it stepped away, mounting the steps toward the leader. The stag raised its head, baring the shaggy throat,
uttering a final, triumphant bellow at the powdery clouds that had gathered in the sky.
When the leading wolf bit into that exposed neck, he did so almost tenderly. The kill was quick and
clean, the predator ignoring the red blood that warmed his jaws,
that should have inflamed his hunger and passion with its fresh and welcoming scent. Instead, the wolf
raised his own head, fixed bright eyes on the same clouds that had been the last things seen by the mighty
stag. A long howl ululated across the moor, and the leader was joined by the rest of his pack in a song of
joy and worship, in music that hailed their mother and their maker.
When the pack finally fell to feeding, the blood of the stag ran down the rocky steps in crimson rivers.
Though the wolves numbered an uncountable throng, now, there was meat for them all. With a sense of
powerful satiation, each predator, after eating its fill, drank from the milky waters of the pool.
The feasting went on for more than a day, and at last the brightness of the full moon rose above the
glimmering waters. Pups were born under that light, and youngsters frolicked around the fringes of a
mighty gathering.
The red blood mingled with the waters of the Moonwell, and the goddess saw and celebrated with her
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children. The bold sacrifice of the stag was, to her, a thing of beauty and with the mighty animal's blood
was the water of her Moonwell consecrated.
And the balance of her living children maintained.
THE LUCK OF LLEWELLYN THE LOQUACIOUS
Alien C. Kupfer
"The vagabond has lied to us!"
Llewellyn the Loquacious felt the cold waters of the River Ghalagar soak through his clothes, through his
black-brown hair, and through his narrow, all-too-human frame.
"Drown him like the rodent he is!"
A halfling heel pressed down on the side of his neck. Water splashed onto his face, into his eyes and
mouth.
"Lie to us, will you? Hold him under the water. Let the fish swim in his lungs!"
He thought this might be the end. This time, he feared, there would be no way out, no escape. Not with
this adventuring band of halflings thirsty for revenge. No, indeed!
The hair-covered foot on his neck was joined by another on the side of his head. The weight forced his
head into the sand at the river's bottom. Other weights several other halflings pinned the rest of his [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]